Stray Sparks
by Firebirdie
Summary: Miscellaneous ficlets featuring my Sith Warrior, Evren Straik: cooking enthusiast, Dark Lord, and ridiculous marshmallow.
1. Skill Check: Intimidate

**A/N:** Inspired by my frustrations with the endless combat conga line that is SWTOR gameplay.

 **Skill Check: Intimidate**

 **o.O.o**

"Quinn, with respect to your tactical appraisal of the situation, just because I _can_ slaughter my way through this station does not mean that I _should_."

Quinn seems to give this due consideration. "I confess, my lord, I fail to see how else you might gain entrance to the communications hub."

Evren smiles. "I'll ask nicely."

 **o.O.o**

He presses the blade emitter to the security chief's abdomen, elbow locked around his throat. "Order your underlings to stand down," Evren hisses in the man's ear, ignoring the fear emanating from those very underlings as they watch the proceedings, frozen. "And know that should you refuse, or command them to open fire even at the cost of your own life, I will simply take another hostage and repeat this tiresome process until _somebody_ sees reason. Now. _Give the order_."

 **o.O.o**


	2. Comparative Morphology

**Comparative Morphology**

 **o.O.o**

"Whoa," Vette says, eyeing the x-ray printouts. "Okay, yay, nothing horribly broken from being thrown through a _wall_. Go you. But can I just put it out there that human skulls are _weird_? How do you fit your whole brain inside?"

"How do you go around with important bits of your nervous system slung over your shoulders?" Evren shoots back.

"And all that hair—no wonder you spend so much time in the bathroom every morning; you gotta contend with this keratin crap poking through your _skin_ —"

"Oh, you're one to talk, I've seen the lekku-buffing bills you rack up at every opportunity—"

"Are those supposed to be there?"

"Hmm?"

"Those," Vette says, pointing at a pair of small bone spurs at either side of the jawbone. "Nothing like 'em on Quinn's . . ."

"I'm from an old Sith family," Evren says with a shrug. "We're only mostly human. Did you really think I came by these stunning cheekbones honestly?"

 **o.O.o**


	3. Darth Cake vs The Pod Person

**A/N:** Inspired by one of the Oricon daily missions where you go rescue Republic troops from their escape pods. Always wondered what those troopers thought of the situation.

 **Darth Cake vs. The Pod Person**

 **o.O.o**

Merahle squints through the haze as a gloved hand reaches into the escape pod. She takes it, grunts as she's pulled up and deposited just outside the pod. Ground's all glassy black rock—volcanic. Air's breathable but smells awful, like sulfur and smoke and rot.

Welcome to Oricon, apparently. Ugh.

She wipes the grit from her eyes with the back of her wrist and blinks up at her rescuer. She freezes. Black armor, red tattoos, too-bright yellow eyes—

"Sith," she spits out, scrambling for her sidearm.

The Sith takes a step back, hands half-raised, well away from the lightsabers at his sides. "Hold a moment," he says, accent dripping Dromund Kaas. "I'm not here to harm you, you are not a prisoner, and you'll be free to return to your base as soon as we can clear a path."

"And I'm supposed to believe that?" Merahle snorts. She levels her blaster pistol at his exposed face. "You people never just let us go. There's always a catch."

He smiles crookedly and shrugs. "Well, this does make the Empire look rather nicer than we usually are, but on balance I'd prefer disingenuous altruism to wanton brutality, don't you agree?"

"Not _that_ disingenuous," another voice chimes in from nearby. A Rutian Twi'lek woman drops down from the ledge just behind the Sith. She waves at Merahle and says, "Hi. Seriously, Imp base is probably the safest spot on the planet right now thanks to Lord Goatee and his magical mental shield."

"Safe?" Merahle says. "With a bunch of—"

"Might we argue this later?" the Sith says, glancing over his shoulder. "It appears that the locals have detected us."

"I'll head them off," says the Twi'lek.

The Sith nods, and she dashes down the slope and out of sight. He turns back to Merahle, sighing. "Look," he says, "you have no reason to trust us and no guarantee this is not a trap. But what other options are there?"

Merahle doesn't lower her blaster. "Could just stay here."

A faint, bloodcurdling scream drifts through the smoky miasma, followed by a salvo of blasterfire.

The Sith _rolls his eyes_. "Yes, that's a splendid idea, do let us know how that works out for you. Stay or go. Your choice." He turns his back on her and begins making his way down the hill.

Merahle hesitates for a moment. Then she curses and hurries to follow. She doesn't want to die out here. And hey—she's gotten out of worse situations than a camp full of Imps with less than one blaster pistol handy. Worst-case, she'll steal a speeder and get back to base. She hopes.

 **o.O.o**


	4. Aesthetic

**A/N:** Fluffy Ev 'n Vette. Shocking, I know. \o/

 **Aesthetic**

 **o.O.o**

"Do you even own clothing that isn't grey or black?" Vette says.

Evren seems to give this due consideration. Then he coughs. "Actually . . ."

Vette sighs. "Not even red? Rah-rah Empire red?"

"Black and grey are _tasteful_ ," Evren says. "Red draws entirely too much attention, and those who favor it tend to also favor the fringey end of Sith aesthetic excess."

"We talking the Imperial Guard's weird hats, or . . . ?"

"That, or Darth Marr's, ah, _unique_ armor."

Vette winces. "Yikes. But, uh. Blue, maybe? You'd look great; it'd bring out your eyes."

"Oh. Erm. Thank you." Evren rubs the back of his neck, head ducked.

"Fair warning, I'm kidnapping you and taking you shopping one of these days."

"The horror, the horror."

"Your wardrobe is a horror, Mr. I-am-allergic-to-colors."

 **o.O.o**


	5. Mediation

**A/N:** Old ficlet. Pure silliness with my Warrior and Inquisitor, and their beleaguered apprentices.

 **Mediation**

 **o.O.o**

"Lord Wrath."

"Darth Nox."

They stare at each other for a moment, frozen and fraught. Then—predictably—the lightsabers come out, the dramatic posing starts, and the Force starts to roil with latent aggression.

Jaesa sighs heavily. "Here we go," she mutters, reaching for her own lightsaber in resignation. But out of the corner of her eye, she spots a flash of orange and white—whirling, she faces it, finds herself crossing blades with a Togruta girl in dark robes—

"Wait!" Jaesa shouts, disengaging and retreating a few steps. "All of you, stop!"

"Hang on—Jaesa?" the girl says incredulously.

"Yes, it's me—"

"You _know_ each other?" says Nox, her silvery eyes narrowing to slits.

"Apparently they do," Evren says with a minute shrug. He keeps his guard up, though, and doesn't look away from Nox.

"It's good to see you again, Ashara," Jaesa says, determined to keep the conversation going. The longer she can stretch this fragile truce, the more likely everyone is to get out of this with all limbs still attached. She deactivates her lightsaber, smiles, and holds out her arms—Ashara grins and embraces her. Her Force signature has steadied since the last time they met. No longer is it a jagged, fitful thing, erratic and unpredictable; it has been honed and polished until it shines like steel.

"We heard you had to go on the run," says Ashara. She glances over at Evren, clears her throat. "I guess that didn't go as planned . . ."

"Not really, no. And I suppose your training took a few interesting turns, too."

"That it did." Ashara pulls away a little, stern-faced. "So where have you been all this time? You promised you'd keep me updated and you never commed me back! You owe me, what, five years' worth of messages now? Start talking."

Jaesa winces. "Sorry. Master Karr said it was too dangerous to maintain contact with friends from the Republic . . ." Come to think of it, he did an _excellent_ job of isolating her from everyone ranging from friends to family to fellow Jedi—anyone who might take issue with his plans for her.

"I get it. Safety first and all that."

". . . We're being ignored," Nox says in conversational tones.

"In fact, we're being _strategically_ ignored," Evren says. "I think we're meant to stand down."

The Sith Lords look at each other some more. Jaesa tries not to yell at hers to hurry it up, focuses on chatting with Ashara. These concepts—stepping away from a fight, trusting other people—are difficult for them to understand, and require patience and practice to drill into their justifiably suspicious brains. But eventually, the Sith do power down their lightsabers, and the Force relaxes between them. Sort of. As far as it ever does between people who aren't quite ready to believe that they aren't enemies. Jaesa will take what she can get.

 **o.O.o**

 _end_


	6. Expedience

**A/N:** Some thoughts about the LS choice after the final boss on Ziost, and what was going through Evren's head at the time . . .

 **Expedience**

 **o.O.o**

" _No_ ," Evren says, rounding on Lana. "You will not touch Surro. You will not lay a finger on her. She's suffered enough—"

"And if her sacrifice saves billions of lives? What then?" Lana demands.

"Then let _her_ make that choice, because you have no right!"

"Now is not the time for your moral qualms—"

"When is it ever? When is it ever _convenient_ to do the right thing?"

"We can't afford to ignore this opportunity."

Evren nearly screams at her. Of course. Of _course_ it's all expedience and necessity, of course she's the pragmatist, again, always, so willing to sacrifice others for the sake of the greater good on the slimmest chance it might confer an advantage. She's the perfect Sith. He thinks he could hate her for it. But for Manaan, for _Rishi_ , for the bright fleeting spark of what might have been friendship—for that, for the grief in her eyes and the emptiness in Surro's—

He eases his expression back to something more human. "Please. Lana."

 **o.O.o**


	7. Nostalgia Trip

**A/N:** Dug up a snippet from Yavin IV. And no, they're not killing the local Massassi, I'm sick of Bioware being shitty about "uncivilized" species, fuck that.

 **Nostalgia Trip**

 **o.O.o**

"It's just like old times."

"Hmm?"

"You and me, wandering around ancient Sith ruins, poking at weird architecture to open doors that were sealed a couple thousand years ago for very, _very_ good reasons …" Vette peeks over the top of the crumbling wall sheltering them. "Oh, and by the way, there's a bunch of Revanites coming this way. Thirty seconds."

"Better hurry, then," Evren says, sliding the last panel back into place and laying a hand on one of the locking mechanism's facets. He focuses; the air goes sharp and prickly with static. There's a crackle of electricity under his palm, then a deep throbbing _thud_ as the lock disengages. He shakes out his hand, wincing. Force lightning has never been his forte.

"Fifteen seconds, Ev."

He nods and closes his eyes for a moment, drawing the Force around himself and Vette to cloak them from view. "Onward," he says quietly.

"Right behind you," Vette replies.

They dart out of cover, angling away from the approaching Revanite minions, the next relic simmering dark and baleful in the Force ahead.

 **o.O.o**


	8. A Lemon Story

**A/N:** I received a request for a lemon story with Evren and Jaesa. I live to serve :)

 **A Lemon Story**

 **o.O.o**

"Jaesa, why do you have an enormous crate of lemons?"

Jaesa holds up a hand to hush him, brow furrowed in intense concentration as she levitates the enormous crate of lemons up the boarding ramp and then maneuvers it into the cargo hold. She sets it down gently, then turns to Evren, who has been shadowing her, with a satisfied nod. "My network is having some, uh, cash flow problems."

Evren looks blank. "I . . . don't quite follow . . .?"

"I intend to finance our operations by starting a small business!"

"But— _lemons_?"

"Lemonade."

"What."

"Everybody loves lemonade. I'm sure we'll be turning a significant profit in no time." Jaesa beams at him. "What do you think?"

"Um," Evren says.

"Wonderful. Help me juice them, would you?"

"What, _now_?"

"Yes, now, let's get started."

 **o.O.o**


End file.
